


The Magic Cordial

by isquinnabel



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, over a thousand years ago, there lived a king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magic Cordial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



Once, over a thousand years ago, there lived a king. He was a good king, greatly respected by his subjects and known for his wise counsel. He reigned alongside his brother and two sisters, and the Great Lion himself presided over their coronation. 

The king was still a lad at the start of his reign, but he had already shown great promise. His country had been under a witch’s curse for a whole century, and he demonstrated quick-thinking and tremendous bravery when he met her in battle. In fact, she very nearly killed him. He would have died if it hadn’t been for the magic cordial.

This cordial was extremely powerful. It was made from a fire flower, native to the mountain ranges of the sun itself, and stored in a bottle made from the clearest, strongest, hardest diamond. Father Christmas had presented it to the king’s sister, with great solemnity. One drop could restore a dying man or beast to full health, and that was its exact use on that day. She made it to the battlefield just in time to save many lives, including that of this king.

It’s a curious thing, to feel well again after being mortally wounded. It’s usual to feel very aware of your renewed strength, but with knowledge of your own frailty weaved throughout. This is how most people feel. The king did, after a fashion. He felt the gravity of what had nearly happened to him. He knew what had been done to save his life, and his heart was filled with relief and gratitude. He felt strong and humbled and grateful and relieved, all at the same time. 

However, his sense of frailty was all but gone.

This went largely unnoticed by all who knew him. In another man, it could have presented itself as great rashness, particularly in battle. The young king was certainly quite fearless when learning how to duel, but this was expected of a young knight. He was certainly not rash. He may have lost an innate sense of his body’s fragility, but he was a leader of armies; he knew how to keep a cool head. He had no intention of risking his peoples’ lives by, for example, charging headlong into an army of angry giants.

He also grew taller. His shoulders broadened and his beard lengthened, but this was similarly seen as normal. He was, after all, a boy growing into a man. If he was a little bigger than most, it was hardly a cause for concern. If anything, this simply made him appear more imposing to their surrounding countries.

The king’s reign, alongside his brother and two sisters, lasted a great many years. It was a happy time for that country, and their history books declared it to be a Golden Age. But all things, both good and bad, must eventually come to an end. The Golden Age ended quite abruptly. The king and his siblings were hunting a white stag when his brother and sisters vanished. It is said that they were originally from another world, and that to there they were returned. This king, however, was left behind.

This was the first time that something inside of him felt wrong. He could never quite describe the exact feeling, but it was almost as though he was tangled in a cord. It was keeping him tethered to this world, like a horse is tethered to a hitching post. He had actually felt this way for many years, but it had not yet been a problem. It was this very feeling that had given him his old sense of invincibility in battle. But now, for the first time, it made him feel trapped.

He knew his reign was over. While his fellows and advisors at the castle would have been pleased to see him, he felt very strongly that he should not return. So, he disappeared into the west. He spent many years living in that country’s wilderness and he continued to grow taller and broader, even when food was scarce.

It was a lonely existence, and the king did not know how he came to be like this. He had his suspicions and his theories, but they were all incorrect. For example, he considered the possibility that the witch from his boyhood had cursed him. It seemed like something she would have done. Or perhaps a gift sent in tribute to the throne room contained some evil potion.

He did not consider the cordial. After all, dozens of his countrymen had drunk from the same bottle, and they had not been similarly afflicted. However, he thought Father Christmas might have some answers. There was clearly magic at work, and the king needed advice from someone who knew more of the art than he did. So, the king dismantled his simple hut, packed some warm furs and hunting tools, and headed north.

It was a long walk, made even longer by the king’s current condition. He was quite large by this time, and he wanted to remain unseen. He snuck through boggy marshland, kept a wide berth around giant territory, and scaled a snowy mountain. He had added months to his journey by avoiding unexpected pockets of civilisation; as much as he craved society, it felt it could only end badly. But he finally reached his destination. There, at the top of the mountain, lived Father Christmas.

His house was a small log cabin, with dustings of snow along the eaves and a warm glow at the windows. The king, suddenly nervous, knocked thrice at the door. He had barely finished the third knock when it flung open.

The king felt rather awkward, which was not a very kingly way to feel. He wasn’t quite sure if he even counted as a king anymore. At this stage, he had lived in the woods for nearly a century, but he had the appearance of a man in his forties. He wasn’t sure how to explain what had happened to him, or why he was here. He had thought about it on his long trek, but now that he was here, the words had gone. Father Christmas, despite his cheerful face, was terribly imposing. The king was much taller, but he felt positively dwarfed by him.

But Father Christmas simply gave a nod. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, your majesty. Would you like to come in?” 

The king looked doubtfully at the small cabin, but felt he couldn’t politely refuse. But the hut, it turned out, was substantially larger on the inside. The king fit quite comfortably in the sitting room.

“Would you like some tea?”  
“No, thank you.”  
Father Christmas chuckled.  
“I don’t blame you, lad.” He eased himself into a chair. “So. I see your sister didn’t follow my instructions.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“That cordial. I told her that a few drops would suffice, but it looks like she gave you a whole mouthful. Understandable, I suppose. She hadn’t used it before, and you were dying.”  
“ _That’s_ why I’m like this? Too much of that cordial?”  
“Of course it is. Those are the rules, and magic always follows its rules.”  
“Can you reverse it? Or… I don’t know, cancel it?”  
“No,” he said gently. “My gifts don’t work that way.”

There’s a difference between an answer and a solution. The king had been telling himself for a century that he wanted an answer; that he just wanted to know what was happening to him. But Father Christmas had given him exactly that, and he felt hollow. What he had really wanted was a solution. 

“Would you like your gift?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Your gift. I kept it for you. You weren’t present when I met the rest of your family, but I thought it worth keeping. Just in case.”

The king, still rather pale, nodded. Truthfully, he couldn’t have cared less about some silly gift, but he hadn’t the energy to say so. Father Christmas left the room and returned minutes later with a long robe made of the richest, softest fabric the king had ever seen.  
“This robe was blessed with unicorn magic – by the very first unicorn – during this world’s first century. It will grow with you. It was made with royalty in mind, and to only be worn by a king or a queen.”  
“But I’m not a king anymore.”  
“Of course you are. Once a king, always a king.”

The robe was extremely soft – the softest thing he had ever felt. The king assumed he had simply gotten used to coarser materials during his time in the wilderness, but it truly was a magnificent robe. Even at the height of his reign, he had never worn anything quite like this.

“Thank you,” he said.  
“You are most welcome.”  
“This is very kind of you, but…” the king hesitated. He wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase his next question. Father Christmas seemed to expect him to speak like a true king, something he hadn’t done for years. He wasn’t sure how to ask ‘but how will I die?’ in the genteel phrasing of royalty.

Father Christmas, however, answered his question before he asked it.

“It’s as I already told you, your majesty,” he said. “I can’t cancel out magic that has already been done. For you to die, the magic of the cordial would have to cease. I can’t do that.”

The king despaired. His years in the wild had been an unhappy time, and the thought of carrying on indefinitely was beyond unbearable. 

“Is there nothing you can do to help?” he asked, sadness building behind his eyes. “Please. There is nothing left for me in this world. Please, help me.”

Father Christmas paused. “There is, perhaps, one thing.”  
  


* * *

  
Father Christmas led the king down: down the mountain, down through some caves, and further down again. The king found himself in an enormous cavern. The ceiling was shrouded in darkness, and the quietest sound created an almost endless echo. He clothed himself in his new robe and, with an enormous sense of relief, drank a new cordial concocted by Father Christmas.

The floor of the cave was very soft, but after a few minutes he ceased to feel it. His breathing deepened. A soft, silver light settled around him. His deep sleep would not cancel the effects of the old cordial; he would still grow bigger, broader, and older, and he was not going to die. But he could be happy, even if it was only in his dreams.

To this day, he sleeps peacefully in his underground cave, dreaming of his days as a young king. His dreams are full of hunts, battles, and seafaring explorations, as well as festivals and parties and the small joys of daily life.

He lies in the dark, dreaming of the light. 

They say he will wake at the end of the world.


End file.
